Just a Little Extra Insurance
by SpartanCommando
Summary: When it comes to the safety of a Teyrn's son it is better to be safe than sorry. A certain Crow and an esteemed Mercenary are hired to escort the youngest of Bryce Couslands sons home where the Mercenary meets Duncan and is hired to aid the Wardens.
1. Chapter 1

Just a Little Extra Insurance

Disclaimer: I do not own DAO, or any of the ingame characters, organizations, nations, or religions present in the game. I do however, own Lucan Cousland, Drakkon Lancero, the Wolves of Nevarra Mercenary Legion, The Orlesian Dragon Brigade, all there members, and more as the story continues. Please, enjoy…Worship is also appreciated, but not a requirement…Yet.

JLEI

'_I have an easy job for you' he says,_ thought a man while parrying aside a wicked looking blade. He followed the movement by slamming his mace in the side of his foes' head stunning it enough for him to slide his sword through an opening in the poorly made armor. The beast roared in pain and looked at him with eyes entirely filled with blind hatred as it brought both arms up to bring its massive great sword down and bisect him. Thankfully a pair of daggers suddenly appeared through its chest and covered the mans armor in its black blood. The creature slumped forward as its weapon fell from its hand.

'_Escort someone to Ferelden and set up a Brigade outpost' he told me. _

Instinct called him to turn and swing his mace down and into the head of a ugly little monster's skull before raising his sword to catch the blade of another sword. This time however a shield followed the blocked strike and forced him back a step. He barely had enough time to look up before the monster swung its blade to decapitate him. Ducking down he closed the distance between them and cut along its left leg with his blade. The creature's injured limb gave out and it slumped to the side as he spun around before he severed its head from body.

Grey eyes snapped up to focus on a flash of movement to his right. The man ducked under a barbed arrow which continued on to hit an Ash Warrior in the bicep. She cried out in pain before throwing her axe in the direction of the Darkspawn that had shot her.

'_You're over qualified and need a break anyway' he finished. _

The man paused a moment to catch his breath before looking up and towards a massive tower. Behind his draconian helmet eyes narrowed in rage at the sight of a burning tower.

'_Just a little extra insurance for some high-born noble' Andraste's Flaming Sword you old bastard!_

"Fall back! We're being overwhelmed!" Cried out one Commander of 100, Drakkon de Lancero, Knight of Orlais and mercenary captain as a massive bird took off from the tower.

_Never should have come to this twice damned hind leg of a country!_

"Drakkon!" Shouted a feminine voice he had become familiar with in the last few days.

Drakkon turned on an Antivan dime and came face to face with an Alpha of the taller monsters barreling down towards him, the massive waraxe held high above its head. The half-Orlesian mercenary knew that he would have no chance of blocking the strike nor parrying it, the momentum behind the swing would be strong enough to very well snap his wrist. Knowing that he moved his legs up and charged down towards it himself.

_Bloody damned Tevinter slaves blood! I refuse to die at the hands of these dung smelling wannabe-dwarves! _

Along the path he brought his into the shield of another of the taller Darkspawn and knocked it off its feet. The second after it fell he caught sight of one of the few surviving Mabari pounce on the creature and rip its throat out. Returning his focus on the Alpha closing in on him he couldn't help but feel a sense of sadness. Unbidden an image of a young woman with short black hair came to mind offering up one of her small and rare smiles.

_Cassandra. My dear cousin, I pray the Wardens stop this Blight before it reaches you. _

Bellowing a war cry at the top of his lungs Drakkon threw his mace at the helmet of the creature. Behind the obsidian faceplate that resembled a Dragons maw Drakkon saw the mace create a dent in the metal of the helmet and cause the Alpha to stumble in its step. The waraxe came down meters before they would have crashed into one another and Drakkon was determined not to give it the chance to raise it up once again. Holding his longsword with both hands he brought the blade down and prepared to run through the mistake of creation. A small, but by no means light, figure tackling him however put a stop to those plans and caused him to lose hold of his weapon.

When Drakkon landed back first onto the blood-soaked muddy mess that was the ground of Ostagar he saw what had brought him down. It was one of the smaller beasts a Genlock, the ever-present wicked smile and mottled green-grey skinned face looked down at him. The monster's hands leapt to his helmet and worked to remove it from Drakkon's head. As he fought to prevent that from happening he cursed loudly to himself when he saw the Alpha beginning to rise back to its feet. The more intelligent Darkspawn turned its head to look at Drakkon's fallen form. For some reason Drakkon had the feeling that the creature's anger had increased before the Alpha reached to retrieve its two-handed weapon.

Narrowing his eyes the mercenary turned his full attention on the smaller but more immediate threat. Flattening out one hand a slot in his gauntlet and with a slight tilt was needed for a small knife to be ejected into his hand. Drakkon brought the into the neck of the Darkspawn. There was a gurgling sound and it spat out large black gobs of blood over his helmet. He then pushed the body off of him and rolled left in time to avoid being struck by the Alpha's axe and quickly rose to his feet. Reaching for his belt the half-Orlesian pulled out a pair of short knives. He closed in on the Darkspawn knowing that its two-handed axe would be useless in such close range. Drakkon drove the knife in his left hand between an opening in the Alpha's armor above what he assumed would be a lung. He then buried the second knife in its right shoulder, disabling its use of that arm and forcing it to drop the axe once again.

Drakkon made good use of that by bringing an armored knee into monsters gut followed by him backhanding it across the helmet. The Alpha fell to the ground in a heap at his feet. While the creature struggled to regain a proper footing Drakkon had already picked up the dropped axe off of the ground and had lifted it above his head before brining it back down and deep into the back of its original wielder. It was then that Drakkon fell to his knees in exhaustion and barely managed to support himself with the staff portion of the axe. A string of colorful Orlesian curses soon escaped his when it became obvious that he was very near if not at his limits.

Suddenly he both heard and felt massive footsteps approaching him. He had barely turned to face the sound when he saw the Ferelden's King Cailan grabbed off the ground by the largest creature he had ever seen save for one brief sighting of a High Dragon. The ogre, he was sure that was what they were called, promptly killed the man before throwing his body away like a common rag doll.

_Whatever God or Gods exist in this world, damn you all for allowing me to accept coming here._

It was hard to believe that in just over a month and a half of his stay in Ferelden he was going to die fighting the very monsters his mother used to scare him with at night when he was a child and refused to go to sleep. How had he gone from that first day on the ship to here?

JLEI

**This is the prologue to my first Dragon Age Fiction. I must say I originally intended to have it set during DAII but then I decided I may as well start in Origins given how I want this story to go. I have the basic plotline set up already, and it spread out through three different Books. This is Book One of a yet unnamed trilogy. This particular story will focus primarily on four characters; Drakkon, my own creation, Alistair, Zevran, and Lucan Cousland my own take on a Human Noble. **

**So how was the battle? I've been told in reviews that my fight scenes are done well but I'm still not totally confident in my abilities to write awesome battle scenes. So be as brutally honest as possible if you will, and I mean it. Failure to be totally honest with me in review will result in my pulling a Flemeth and popping out of the one thing you don't expect me to pop out of and force you to write an honest review. **

**Take note of one fact: Drakkon will not become a Grey Warden during this story. He's too loyal to Orlais and his Mercenary Outfit to ever willingly allow himself to become a Warden. I really like how I have him planned out so far. How many fics are there where one of the main characters is Orlesian to the bone? Leliana may and Riordan do not count as they consider themselves Ferelden instead. Spoiler, there will be some tension amongst the three of them. **

**I hope to have the first real chapter up by the end of Friday night but…Well I'll be the first to admit my record of updating is not always the most consistent or on time. Senior year of high school starts in just over a week so yeah, somewhat valid excuse. But considering other writers who attend colleges/universities and manage to update often that really kills anything I can use to justify my own pace. **

**By the way I have set up a poll for what three other Origins I should include in this fic. Its on my profile so go for it. **

**SpartanCommando, Out. **


	2. New View

Just a Little Extra Insurance

Disclaimer: I do not own DAO, or any of the ingame characters, organizations, nations, or religions present in the game. I do however own Lucan Cousland, Drakkon Lancero, the Wolves of Nevarra Mercenary Legion, The Orlesian Dragon Brigade, all there members, and more as the story continues. Please, enjoy…Worship is also appreciated, but not a requirement…Yet.

JLEI

**AN: Well this'll probably the last thing I write for 2011. Before begining however, I felt the need to clear some things up before I continued on with this story. First off I've decided on using all the origins at first. By that I mean that only five of them will be Wardens. You as the reader will decide on four of them, as the Human Noble is a definite. Now since that's out of the way, it's time to tell you about what I like to call the Almost-Mercenary-Origin Male, Drakkon de Lancero, and the organization known as the Orlesian Dragon Brigade. First off basic Info:**

**Gender: Male, Class: Warrior/Rouge (Think Duncan), Specialization: TBD, Age: 28, Nationality: Nervara/Orlais, Occupation: Knight of Orlais, Mercenary Commander, and Royal Guardsman.**

**Now to the Orlesian Dragon Brigade. If Orlais can be based off of France, then consider the Brigade my Orlesian version of the French Foreign Legion. There is a slight difference, and that is that the Brigade is indirectly under the total command of the Orlesian Crown, despite technically being a mercenary outfit. In order of seniority the ranks are as follow: Fledgling, Drake, Drake-Sergeant, Drake-Lieutenant, Dragon-Captain, Commander of 25, Commander of 100, and Commander of 1000. The duties and assignments to these ranks will be made apparent throughout the story. **

**Further questions; please be addressed in review form.**

* * *

><p>JLEI<p>

Royal Clinic of Val Royeaxu, 9:30 Dragon

"Well he looks better today, doesn't he?" The words, Orelsian and loaded with unusual amusement by any standards, were spoken by a male of average height and build. He wore an elaborately tailored set of blue and black robes, with golden trimmings. Aged, but still of a fine quality, brown boots coated with a layer of dried mud stomped on the formerly pristine white tiles as the man began clapping. Scars were visible all over the pale skin of his calloused hands before they were hidden by his robe's sleeves. A black hood covered his entire face save for his mouth and jaw, which showed off part of what was a proud and smug look. Coming to a halt beside the room's sole bed the edges of his arm sleeves were pressed to his hips and were followed by a sharp nod, "I've truly outdone myself this time, haven't I Ser Joan?"

From behind the man walked in a woman of middle-age, as shown by the noticeable contrast of her ginger and grey colored hairs, with a chilling pair of icy-blue eyes. The hair was short in its cut, almost mannishly so, and looked utterly pressed to her skull. She wore armor of the same style of the Chevaliers, made from silverite and red-steel. A war-axe was attached to the hip of her armor, the blade smacking into the leg plates with each step in a resounding clack. One noticeable thing about her was the way her left arm was held in a sling. She was also, more or less, the same height as the man. The woman walked around the robed man and bed, coming to a halt on the opposite side of the bed and looked down at the beds occupant. Gingerly she brushed a gloved hand over grimy black curls before moving to a halt above bandaged eyes. Her gaze softened at this and motherly relief could be gleamed behind her eyes. Without looking up she spoke in crisp and confident voice asked, "Are you sure the operation was a success, Lestat?"

The man, now known as Lestat, huffed in offense before childishly turning his back on the woman and crossing his arms over his chest. "I had no idea you thought so little of my talents, _Joanna_," he said in an attempt to get a rise from the Commander of 1000. Pausing for a moment to register his failure Lestat continued on, "You asked me to give him his eyes back as they were before that nasty dagger ruin them. In this I failed. I got rid of those ghastly brown and replaced them with a more appealing grey. Oh, and I played around with them a bit more. If he starts bleeding from the eyes, then don't worry too much. Unless they don't stop after an hour, in which case he _may_ be dying. I'm not entirely sure what that Tevinter meant by _rejection_. Really, as though a blind man would willingly turn down a new pair of eyes."

"Lestat, will he see or not?" Joan demanded briskly and in no mood to deal with the man's madness.

"Like a hawk my dear, like a hawk." Lestat said disenfranchised with the rather short discussion. The Commander was one of his least favorite people in the Empire. She was stone cold in every feasible way, save for her motherly protectiveness of her Fledglings past and present. Such a shame to; according to older members of the Brigade she had quite the fiery temper that provide her fellows with much entertainment in their younger years. The stories they would tell intrigued Lestat, who had thus made it a personal goal to drive the woman into one of those fabled moods. Sadly it had already been two years since he had set that goal and he was still no closer than when he had begun. Still Lestat prided himself on never once quitting on his goals.

He heard the low clinking sound of old armor plates and did not need eyes to know that Joan had removed her hand away from the bandages. Then the woman had appeared right in front of him, close enough for their noses to almost touch. She shot Lestat a look that made it quite clear she was about to ask something, and that she would not allow him to leave without answering. "Did you do anything else since you first saw to him? And I mean _anything_. Even what you consider to be minor."

At this Lestat gave her a twisted smile that showed off white set of teeth. Nodding his head the man motioned for the woman to take some steps back. Then he brought a hand up and began counting, "First of all, were the eyes. I did some interesting things with those for fun. They'll change color depending on his mood. You taught him how to hide his emotions too well I found, so this is my way to see what he's really thinking." Joan glared daggers at Lestat but otherwise made no move to stop him as a second finger came up. "Two, he's should have a few interesting new talents with those eyes of his, mainly that he won't need those elves under his command to tell him what's more than a mile away. Three, he's going to be hungrier than he was before, very much like the bar tales tell of the Grey Wardens. Four is a something I think will put him in a fouler mood when he finds out; I decide to remove the tattoo on right forearm."

"And that is all you've done to him, aside from replacing the eyes?" Joan asked him, and Lestat would have been offended by her rare tone of disbelief were he any other doctor.

"Of course, dear Joanna! What do you take me for? Some twisted and foul excuse of a man who enjoys mutilating vulnerable beings?"

"The guards _do_ talk about you being that sort." She said, referring to the numerous rumors that ran rampant throughout the Royal Palace. He had heard most of them to. Lestat was an apostate, a half-elf, a new breed of Darkspawn, a werewolf in total control of his curse, and many more of that sort. It wasn't like none of them were _true_, the one's about his helping in the torture of state prisoners were very much true, but still. Some of the rumors were very outlandish.

Lestat let out a low sound of annoyance from his throat, "They guard the prisoners during an interrogation. Who better to bring suffering to men and women than a doctor who knows every part of the body? Saving life is not so different than taking it, you know. I'm more surprised they actually still mention that. Most of the time the guards are too disturbed by what they witness to do more than try and expunge the memories."

Joan continued to stare into his eyes before tilting her head slightly in acknowledgement, "So long as you did nothing harmful to him I am satisfied. Send one of your aides for me the instant he first shows signs of waking." Lestat opened his mouth to respond before they both heard a tired moan from behind him. Stepping to the side Lestat turned and saw his latest patient struggling to sit up. He was pushed aside by Joan who moved to help the drowsy man. "Ignore what I just said, Lestat. Go fetch him a bowl of broth from the kitchen, along with a wineskin."

"Since when did I become a dog?" Lestat openly queried before then leaving the two Dragon Brigade soldiers alone.

JLEI

"-hear me?" A familiar voice said reassuringly near his ears. The voice was loud and he winced at the closeness. What was going on? He was not sure how he knew it, but he did not believe that the sound should have been so loud. He tried to open his eyes and rid himself of the darkness. They did not open, and he tried again with the same results. What was going on?

"Drakkon? Listen to my voice. It is me, Joan." He heard the voice again and quickly placed it with a face. Caring, teacher, commander, these words came to mind almost immediately alongside the image of an armored human woman with short red hair.

Drakkon turned his towards the voice and spoke hoarsely, "Why can't I see?" He felt no danger at all. Commander of 1000, Joan of Jader, was the woman in command of the entire Dragon Brigade, and had previously served as head instructor for recruits hoping to earn the title of Drake. She had been in that position, and thus stationed in Val Royeaux, for over ten years, ever since an injury in battle had cost her the use of her left arm. The injury did nothing to stall her dedication to the Brigade however, and pushed her to make sure that every single Fledgling who came into her territory became a Drake able to match any veteran soldier in the Orlesian army. It was the because of these results, combined with her own achievements on the battlefield in her youth, that she had been deemed the new leader after the previous Commander had been forced to step down from age. And despite her utter intolerance for any form of nonsense she was a mother-figure to many of her students, of which Drakkon was one.

Her voice came louder now that he had turned to face her, and he had rarely been so relieved to hear words. "You can't see because your eyes needed to be bandage up completely, Little Drake." Despite the situation he found the urge to frown at the woman's nickname for him. It wasn't like he had asked his mother to give him the name of the most revered of Orlesian Emperors. "Can you tell me what the last memory you may recall is?" Despite being in an informal relationship with her Drakkon still made to bring his left hand to touch against in brow in a salute. The older woman caught the hand before it had even left the bed and fixed a hard look at him. "No unnecessary movements. The eyes weren't the only thing that needed fixing."

His mouth quirked up in a small smile as he heard that familiar 'this-is-an-idiot' tint carried in her voice. Many a Fledgling had been singled out for their mistakes and verbally assaulted in full view of their own by that voice. "I remember I was part of the detachment sent to Montfort. The Lord's bodyguard had executed him publically and taken over the city. Two battalions of the Brigade, along with a legion of Chevaliers were sent in to take back the city and find out just why the guards had rebelled." Here Drakkon paused as images of the recent siege flashed through his mind. A storm had begun hours after the siege had begun and lasted for most of a week. He'd taken a platoon to scale the least guarded part of the walls. Unfortunately a skilled apostate had joined the rebels and ruined that plan. "During the assault a crossbow bolt had struck one of my men in the back. I tried to get him back to our lines and…I can't remember anything past that."

"That's because you bad end of a fireball forty meters short of the line. You were lucky you'd decided to carry the wounded soldier back with you. He got the worst of it, but you still earned yourself some severe burns, and a split skull." Drakkon slumped at the words. The man was not one of his own, but instead a Chevalier of some renown. He supposed the man may have already been dead when the mage got them. There hadn't been a sound uttered by the downed chevalier after the bolt tore through his armor plates. In which case he'd been injured trying to carry a _dead_ Chevalier; splendid.

"So, how long was I out of it?" He ventured to ask. The Chevalier Commander and his staff had said the siege could last as long as half a year. Unless something dire had happened in another part of the Empire then his battalion was likely still slugging it out at Montfort. Ever since he had taken charge of the unit he had always fought with his men.

"Three weeks since you were brought to Val Royeaux, and half a week more since you were injured originally. Don't worry about the siege thought."

"We pulled out?" Drakkon asked in shock. "What about the Chevaliers?"

"Their legion is still there, reinforced by troops from Val Chevin, Ghislain, and Churneau. It was just the Brigade detachment."

"Why?"

"I don't know yet. The orders were just sent yesterday. What I do know is that you and your Fourth Battalion are being shipped out for a new assignment."

"A new assignment? Then whatever happened to my eyes wasn't too bad?" He had not failed to miss the fact that Joan hadn't specifically told him what had happened to his eyes.

"I've never been one for making explanations nicer than they really are. You'll certainly be surprised."

"What happened?" He asked worriedly. Joan was one for getting things out in the open as soon as humanly possible. She never took the time to think up the nicest or kindest way to say anything. With her all news, good or bad, was told bluntly…

"You've become the first human to receive a new pair of eyes."

"What?" He asked slowly. How was a person supposed to react to news like that? Drakkon was unsure whether or not to feel terrified or relieved. As such his responses were obviously limited. "Whose eyes were given to me?"

"Someone who used to be alive of course!" Exclaimed a new voice jovially before laughing in a way that put Drakkon on immediate edge. He knew just who that voice likely belonged to. The infamous physician had a reputation that most sane folk would retreat from. Unfortunately he felt that the odds of him making any sort of successful break for safety would be met with failure.

"At least you brought back a satisfactory meal for my wounded former pupil, Lestat." Joan said tonelessly as the new pair of footsteps closed in on him. The scent of whatever concoction Lestat was brining quickly brought Drakkon to the realization of just how famished he truly was. He was much too hungry to care when his stomach made its lack of substance known to all.

"Thank you! I am not just a doctor, but also an excellent dog for food!" Lestat spoke in his mirthful voice before a sharp pain spread across Drakkon's back. He tried to lunge at the man but was quickly restrained by Joan's arm. "Joanna, my dear, I had no idea you were so concerned for my safety! It fills my empty existence with such hope for my future!" Even with his lack of sight Drakkon could just imagine the man in some overly dramatic pose, if his eccentric reputation was even half accurate.

"Do not dare to make such presumptuous statements Lestat. Had he gone through with his action then the broth would be spread out on the floor of the clinic. I have no intention of giving the elven workers within the palace more work cleaning up your mess." Joan retorted swiftly and scathingly before pushing Drakkon back down and onto to bed. "Feed him."

"Really? But I've already brought him food! Ser Joanna, I am a doctor, an inventor, and an expert in torture, but I am not a caretaker!"

"He and I are both incapable of accomplishing this task, thus it falls on your shoulders to feed an injured man."

"No."

"You would have your patient starve?"

"Of course not! He has yet to see what I've done to him. I very much look forward to the moment whence he shall do so."

"Then _feed_ him."

Drakkon bristled as the two people traded words back and forth, all the while ignoring the fact that he was only unable to see, not unable to _hear_.

JLEI

Private Residence of Drakkon de Lancero

Five days later and Drakkon had finally been allowed to put an end to his stint in the Royal Clinic of Orlais, and was now staring at a mirror in his small private estate, which was more along the lines of an extravagant apartment complete with dwarven runes made to produce a fluorescent lighting. In that time the Fourth Battalion Commander had spent more time than around the mad doctor than he felt necessary. He had the feeling that the doctor enjoyed testing him with constant examples of his alleged insanity. However that implied him consciously planning such actions out, and such provocation implied a capacity for perfectly ration thought processing. In other words Lestat was crazy, but not overly so. Almost like the clown jesters who provided entertainment in the traveling circuses across Thedas.

A day before his release had seen the bandages finally coming off at last, and allowed him to see just what had been done to him. It was shocking to say the least. Seeing his once amber colored eyes replaced by _grey_ had made him drop the small personal mirror handed to him by Lestat, and consequently sent the man into a long winded tirade about ruining one of his rare Tevinter made products. After that Drakkon had made a point of avoiding any reflective surfaces, unwilling to take a more detailed look of his new appearance. Now in his own home the man had no choice but look at his own reflection. A private audience with the Empress of Orlais and his Commander demanded one is dressed for the occasion. The knight had taken a bath, shaved, and cut his longer hair back to normal length after three weeks of growth. He had chosen to wear clothing typical of the Orlesian Nobility in the colors of green and white with silver stitching. The clothing was of fine quality, as befitting of one of the top officers in the unofficial Royal Guard.

Still as he looked over his appearance, straightening any imperfections and removing any stray threads, he had found his gaze firmly centered on his formerly grey eyes. They still retained their grey color, not changing since he first saw them. He saw faint scar marks along the edge surrounding them, likely left behind by whatever Lestat had used to remove his original eyes. A cold shiver raced up and down his spine at the thought of that man having the opportunity to kill him on a whim. According to the small book Lestat had given him about what to expect with the new eyes, the grey color was meant to show confusion. Drakkon thought that fit perfectly well with what he was feeling. He was confused by how he was given the eyes in the first place, confused by what his new assignment was, and confused about why he had been summoned by the Empress herself on such short notice.

Drakkon had met Céline numerous times since joining the Brigade, before she had even ascended to her position even. In private they would call each other a friend, and on several occasions he had made an attempt at courting her. There was very little chance that his courting would yield anything of course but so long as it was his right as a noble, no matter how low he was in the hierarchy, to do so he would continue. Still he had no doubt that she would sacrifice him and any number of his fellows if it meant keeping Orlais safe and secure. Drakkon had no problem whatsoever with that, because if it was he who was Emperor he would be much the same. The Orlesian Dragon Brigade had been found by a disgraced general as a way to continue to serve the Empire. The purpose behind the creation was to provide Orlais with a third party force capable of acting in the interests of the Empire in delicate matters where a legion of Chevaliers would cause unwanted international conflicts. This mainly came in the form of the Brigade being hired by Orlesian nobles for 'private' ventures outside the borders where any blame for their involvement could only be placed on the noble.

The method was risky and hazardous for those who took part in it. On one hand it added favor with the Imperial Court, but on the other if things did not go according to plan then they would be left alone without any aid. Several of these nobles had even been executed over the years for risking open war between Orlais and various nations. And these nations all had their suspicions, especially when it was public knowledge that the Brigade often served as the bodyguards for the royal family. Yet they could not take any meaningful action because every member of the Brigade had it driven into their bones that they were never to reveal any information on their clients if they were captured, and there was always a bard or two available to silence the odd man or woman who knew anything about their contracts.

There was a knocking sound on his door which allowed him to break his gaze from his reflection. Another series of knocks, these heavier and more rapid than the first set, followed soon after. Shooting the mirror one last look Drakkon closed his eyes and took in a slow breath. When he opened his eyes again they were a black color. That meant commanding, if he remembered the book right. He turned on his heel to grab a belt from atop a table. Securing it around his waist he then secured a scabbard to it. Then he removed his ceremonial gold-hilted sword from its chest and slid it firmly into place within the red sheath. Finally he removed his public mask from its place atop his bed and held it by the eyes. The mask was black and stylized in the fashion of a wyvern, and not a dragon.

Within less than have a dozen strides he was already at the door and opening it. On the other side of the door stood the four most trusted members of his battalion, his personal guard. They were an odd sort, and more than once had his choice in subordinates been questioned by haughty nobles. Although to be fair he could not blame them for their opinions; two elves, a faithless ex-Templar, and a famed duelist. He could easily determine which two had knocked on his door.

The first one to knock was almost certainly Fenris of Tevinter, an escaped slave with tattoos seared into his flesh by lyrium, who had found a second chance in the Brigade. Fenris was the most rigid of his officers when it came to protocol, a trace remnant from his past as a slave to a Magister Lord, but would probably leave Drakkon the moment he stopped paying the elf. The silver haired man was wearing his usual battered and scratched armor, with a blood-red greatsword on his back. He offered Drakkon a nod in greeting.

Standing beside Fenris, and standing a full head taller than Drakkon, was a man wearing traditional Templar's armor. The most distinguishing features were the three claw marks stretching down from his helmet, and the scorched off Sword of Mercy on his chest plate. The man was one of his four Commanders of 25, and his de facto lieutenant in the battalion. His name was David, old enough to be his father, and he was a man who had left the Templar Order behind him along with his faith in the Maker roughly around when he was born. He stood with his arms crossed and gave off the feeling of a man of little patience. It was because of the man's well known dislike for wasting time that Drakkon knew he had been the one behind the second set of knocks. Unlike Fenris he did carry his weapons with him.

On the other side of Fenris was a lightly tanned man both roughly the same in age and height to Drakkon. He had on an impressive set of drakescale armor which matched his crimson eyes. The man was famous throughout Orlais for killing nearly a hundred nobles in public duels, earning himself an almost universal loathing among the Orlesian nobility. There were few families who had not lost at least one member to his black long sword. The man was named Dante and was born to a Ferelden servant woman the year after the Battle of River Dane. Dante also wore a curious wide brimmed hat with three black feathers, and a blue cloak above his armor.

Finally there was the sole woman of the bunch. She was an elf like Fenris, but there the similarities ended. She was tall for an elf, roughly the same height as most human women, with bronzed skin. Her hair was a light brown color and reached just past her shoulders and was contrasted by the intensity of her black eyes. The hair concealed the pointed ears common to all elves and allowed her to pass for a human woman. She did not where armor like her companions, instead choosing to wear a simple but tasteful set of blue robes. Around her neck was a pendant shaped like a wolf's fang. Her name was Alexandra Surana.

Looking at them each once Drakkon placed the mask over his face and started for the palace.

JLEI

Orlesian Imperial Throne Room

"Your Majesty, Commander," Began a nervous servant hesitantly from the entrance to the throne room. The chamber was filled with over two dozen trees of various breeds lined up in two columns from the entrance to the throne itself. Throughout the chamber the cries and squawks of thirty birds echoed from wall to wall. A small stream flowed from the very back of the chamber and rounded past the Imperial Throne before splitting up and moving past the trees before being drained by a series of runes imported from the Circle of Magi in Cumberland. The runes perpetually glowed blue and drained the waters before returning it back to the beginning of the stream. The servant was momentarily paralyzed by awe as he took in a sight few servants ever saw more than once. He was broken from the trance by a low coughing sound and jumped before remembering _who_ he had kept waiting. "Ser Drakkon de Lancero, of the Dragon Brigade, requests permission to enter." He said while impressively not stuttering in the slightest.

Standing beside the silverite made throne Ser Joan, clad in her polished and unused dragonbone armor, nodded curtly while resting her good hand on the pommel of her ceremonial sword. The woman shared a look from the corner of her eyes with her predecessor, the now Lord Jason standing on the opposite side of the throne with a cane. The servant made an exaggerated bow before half running out of the room. Joan silently considered find the identity of the man. Several other servants had not been half as collected as that one had, and she was in need of a new assistant. A moment later and Drakkon entered first and marched past the twin column of trees, followed closes by his four guards. Catching the barely noticeable nod from the Empress, Joan moved to stand within arm's reach of the throne. Drakkon and his guards came to a halt in front of Joan, his guards dropping to a single knee behind the knight. With well-practiced ease Drakkon silently drew his own blade from its scabbard before presenting it pommel first to Joan. She in turn took the blade in her free hand and watched as he dropped to his knees and moved his head up to expose his throat.

Joan turned to face the Empress and held the weapon with the blade pointed to the floor. When the Commander of 1000 spoke the words were spoken with a reverence equaled only by those who sang the Chant of Light. "Empress, the blade is the symbol of a knight's very life. The knight will swear fealty to their master with the blade, shed blood in defense of the Empire with the blade, and hopes to die by the blade. The knight before you today offers his blade, and his life, to you. If he has dishonored you or if you feel he is no longer worthy of knighthood, this blade will end if upon your command." The silence that followed lasted for several seconds as five souls awaited the decision by the supreme law of Orlais.

Eventually the Empress stood with the grace of the one of the great lions prowling the lands of the Western Approach, her lustrous red hair reaching past her shoulder blades and wearing a blue lion's mask. She strode with a confidence born from the knowledge that she had saved her nation from the ruin it had almost reached under her uncle's rule. Without breaking her step she took the blade from Joan's hand and pressed the tip to Drakkon's throat. A thin line of red began to trail from where the steel cut into flesh, but the man did not react. With a slight movement of her head towards the ceiling Drakkon slowly raised himself up, the blade still pressed to his throat. Finally the Empress pulled the weapon back before then holding it parallel to the floor and spoke at last, "Your life and your service to me shall end only in the face of the enemies of our people. Until you meet that enemy Ser Drakkon, your life remains your own."

Slowly Drakkon reached with both hands to take hold of his sword. The Empress released her own grip on the weapon before pushing his hands back towards him before turning to retake her place on the throne. After bowing his head the sword was soon back in the red scabbard it had been drawn from, while at the same time Drakkon's guards returned to a standing position behind him. Joan also returned to her original position on the left side of the throne. Then a low clapping was heard and attention was shifted from the empress to the old white haired man on her right. Wearing the traditional white and red robes belonging to Royal Councilors, advisers to the Imperial Family, Lord Jason smiled at the five members of his former command.

A hoarse and worn bout of laughter followed before the old Lord returned his hands to rest atop his cane. Still smiling he turned to look down at the Empress before speaking, "The formalities have been done with, yes my Empress?"

Looking back at the man whom had served as her most loyal supporter upon her ascension to the throne, Céline smiled up at him, "Yes, Ser Jason. Those formalities that populate your nightmares are done for now."

"What a relief then, dear girl." Lord Jason said before turning to fix Drakkon with a hard look. "There will be no improper action from you, young man."

Shaking his head from side to side an honest smile crossed the knight's face as he removed the mask from his face, revealing a pair of amber colored eyes similar to his original pair. "I thought I heard Her Majesty say the formalities were done with, milord."

Lord Jason snorted once before responding, "To me Ser Drakkon, to me. I've drawn enough breaths that I should not have to be bound by such chaffing restraints unnecessarily. I've lived for over seventy years now, and all but this past one and my first eight I've been bound by such nightmarish abominations of human creation. I _earned_ the right to live out my life without those Maker-damned customs."

"I agree with his Lordship," David added without hesitation, his speech having an almost musical cadence to it. Jason nodded in thanks as the second oldest man continued, "Formalities do nothing but puff up arrogant nobles who enjoy wasting the time of those lower in station to them, with the soul constant reason being that they enjoy it."

"Stay your tongue, David." Joan spoke up. "We don't need you coaxing Jason into a ranting state yet again. You did that enough when we were all younger people."

"I remember that you did much the same Joan, and more often as well, if my memory still serves me." Lord Jason commented while looking between the two middle-aged soldiers he had recruited decades earlier. "I actually miss those days. The two of you were such an excellent source for venting the pressures I had to deal with as Commander of 1000. I am quite curious to know how it is that you survive it, Joanna, if you will indulge me?"

"By breaking and reforming the souls of each and every new Fledgling that joins the Brigade."

"You always were power hungry bitch. That hasn't lessened with age I see."

"Drakkon, silence that Second of yours before I do it myself by lobbing off his head."

The eyes of the rest of the room's occupants darted from each member of the three way conversation the veteran Brigade members. Céline visibly allowed herself to relax and watch the entertainment made by them. Looking towards Drakkon she could see that he was doing the same as her. Behind him his three other guards were varied in their reactions. The male elf looked exasperated and annoyed, the female elf had one hand covering her mouth to stifle her laughter, and the red eyed man had his mouth open agape. Eventually Céline was forced to put a stop to the fascinating verbal dueling between David and Joan.

With simple cough she had regained the attention of all in the room. Holding herself up in the manner she had grown used as Empress the atmosphere of the room instantly changed. She had not summoned one of her most loyal and skilled soldiers for the luxury of her own enjoyment. Trading a look with Lord Jason, Céline made a faint motion with her hand. The jovial nature carried in the milky green eyes of her advisor disappeared and was replaced by the sharp edgy look that had kept certain nobles in line and had an unquestionable hand in her rule.

"Drakkon, you are going to Cumberland, and from there you will set sail for Ferelden." The old Lord began.

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><p><strong>AN: The usual, dear readers if you would. A review, suggestions, criticism, etc. Please help me out to, I need some names, male or female, for each of the origins minus the Human Noble. The human noble will make an apperance next chap. I want an honest answer from you all about this chapter; does it seem to move too fast or just right? What did you guys think of my little inclusion of the Orlesian Court? Also, a couple more things before I finish here. If you've read the Vampire Diaries, or seen Interview With a Vampire, you should know who Lestat is. The Lestat in this story borrows somewhat from the vamp brat there, but he is not an exact copy. So I'd like to make it clear that I do not own one of the sources for the character here. <strong>

**Also, the Surana I introduced here is related to the elf mage origin, but she is not one herself. This story is AU, so to any canon-demanding guys or girls I can have him here. I actually got the idea from after coming across this person's page on deviantART. .com/ After reading the 'What if's' about Fenris I just had to have him in here. Oh, and if you are curious how Drakkon got a new pair of eyes when such transplants are impossible for us? Hint. It begins with B, is two words, and ends with C. **

**And I wish you all a happy start to 2012 in a few days. **


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